These bookshelves of voices
pleading to be heard 
remind me of my mother
who asked before she died
if I’d given any thought to writing.
You express yourself so well, she said, 
you really should. 
That shocked me.  
I’d never had the slightest chance 
to express myself with her. 
She’d cut me off or finish my sentences 
and move to another topic 
when I’d try to tell her how I saw the world. 
But she asked again and I said, 
Yes, that’s my plan. 
I kept my answer brief, so she couldn’t interrupt.
She said, Oh, Laura, that makes me glad. 
A second shock.
When was she ever pleased about the steps 
I took to create a life apart from her? 
What do you intend to write, she asked. 
I paused a moment, then said, 
My memoirs. 
The room where we were sipping tea filled
with stillness, 
like the aftermath of earthquakes
or tidal waves.
I suppose I should have kept it to myself, 
my plan to write about her once she died. 
I didn’t mean to tell her, 
but I couldn’t hold it back—
the fact I’d get the final word.